Echoes of My Soul
by the Mirage Prismatic
Summary: Aymeric/Adventurer - "There's them persons who'll be your kindred in soul. But those who's first Words are known to ye - they'll shake up yer life something fierce," Everyone gets soulmarks - but soul words - those carry extra weight. 'Fate' is not set in the loom, for at any moment, a thread could unravel or a stitch be missed.
1. Aymeric: Child to Knight

Author's Note: I wish FFN had a seperate section for these. Originally posted on A03 - 2016-12-26

This was inspired by the slew of MCU Soulmate fic I was reading at the time. This was original posted on Archive of Our Own. It's not finished - has 2 more chapters planned. This will be posted daily until I run out of chapters (4).

Disclaimer: the Warriors of Light/Adventurers in this piece of fiction are of my own invention and shall likely be referenced across my works.

* * *

 **Aymeric: Child to Knight**

The words "Well, I guess Ishgardians do have a sense of humor!" were printed in careful but neat lettering on Aymeric's left arm. The blue letters had gotten darker as years passed, confirming that they hadn't strayed from the course that would bring them to each other.

His mother, Amarante, had tittered as she fitted an arm warmer to cover the words. "They're rare, Aymeric. And they do always come in blue - though the shade... "she traced her fingers over the deep azure she couldn't quite describe. "Does seem unique to you,"

"But other people have them?" In a tavern in the Black Shroud on a trading trip with his mother he'd seen an exchange of First Words and everyone had clapped, the bartender giving them free drinks.

"Not in Ishgard, dear one. Keep them covered regardless - it's a private thing,"

"Oui, Maman,"

His father, Elouan, looked sharp whenever Aymeric did not cover them - it was always indoors but he didn't have to say anything. Eventually, they got a powder and covered the words - as if there was only flesh there.

"You're going to see the Archbishop today," his father explained as his mother fussed.

Young Aymeric - equal to a Hyuran child of ten winters - frowned. "Why me?"

* * *

He wished his father was his birth father. He didn't talk of soul words as if they were a curse, not like the Archbishop who kept his tone commanding and lecturing as if he was talking to a puplit and not his son.

But Aymeric didn't really think of Archbishop as his father either and his parents clutched his hands when they had left the Bascilia.

But soon there would be no more hand-holding, or knitted jumpers or making practice swords with his papa or hugs.

He wished that his father (the father who'd _loved_ and _raised_ him) hadn't died in a travel accident. That his mother hadn't died in the same accident. He suppressed his anger at the other attendants of the memorial - knights had died too and somehow dying protecting their people was less honorable than dying to dragonfire. His parents _would_ go to Halone's Halls regardless.

And without them he was ever more aware of the severe presence of the Archbishop. That was when the rumors started and the gates to the outside were closed to him - there were no more trips or opportunities for it. His knight training took precedence.

"In the knighthood," his papa (in heart, if not in blood) had said. "they can judge you but they cannot _stop_ you,"

He started knight training late; he'd wanted to become a merchant like his mother. She was always bring back something interesting, took him with her as often as she could, though not very far. But his hands were not unfamiliar with the blade; he'd practiced with his father.

He trained with the other pages in the large class and dove into his studies. Archery helped him think. Less swinging about in archery - it took patience and skill to get a good target. Cooled his mind.

The soul words weren't his only marks fortunately - a dragoon's lance ran down his spine – right along the bone in the center.

If he hadn't had them, he would have to stave off suspicions too for the unmarked were thought to have committed crimes in a past life that made them unworthy of a soulguide.

And he was far too wary to contemplate what the discovery of his _words_ of the soul would bring.

* * *

The dragoon's lance begins to itch and it takes weeks - and corridor scuffle and mutual disciplinary cleaning duty - for Estinien to acknowledge him as more than a shadow that occasionally darkened his path.

"Where's yours?"

They're both orphans so racing back and forth across the stones with soapy scrubs pads isn't such a chore for them as it is for their highborn peers.

Aymeric looks at him askance.

"Where's yours?"

Well, the mentors had despaired over Estinien's total disregard for mannerisms. "My back. Right down the spine."

"I want to see later,"

He does - Aymeric's is lance - Gae Bolg to be exact and Estinien's is a sword- right down the spine.

The mark diviners claim it means that their soul match would stab them in the back.

Estinien scoffs.

When the dragoon aspirant tackles and bloodies two highborn whelps for trying to slander him, Aymeric agrees with him.

And Estinien finally accept Aymeric after he shoots a dragon in the eye for him.

 _When Knights are matched in the soul, they will form such a team that will carry Ishgard forward._

* * *

As the red moon loomed closer, astrologians showed interest in something other than the Dragon Star for the first time in forever, the soul words throbbed like a racing heart.

And the waking visions came.

Fleeting. Like flashes. Estinien, his friends would be replaced by people he'd never seen - Elezen, yes but Roegadyn, Lalafell, Miqo'te, Hyur. But Ishgard was in upheaval and his knight mentor - the Lord Commander - needed him and he pushed through it, though the blue soul words hummed.

He had duties to Ishgard and visionary dreams he _could_ talk about.

The priest waxed poetic about his needing to 'become an Elezen of the cloth' to 'thank Halone' but fortunately he managed to bring the priest around to agreeing Halone was guiding him to be one of her warriors.

Considering, his dreams were filled with brave if reckless warriors pluming dangerous environments and fighting off unfamiliar soldiers in red and black with odd helmets, it wasn't far off the mark.

He was actually quite sure that wasn't it at all – it wasn't Halone - but even now he was wary of revealing his soul words.

She - he was certain of this - wasn't Ishgardian.

Soul words in Ishgard were rare so he had no idea if this vision thing was unusual or a common parcel with soul words. But very few had a soulmatch outside of Ishgard.

The astrologians had their theories.

Don't worry about it," Estinien said. "I have them too,"

"What do you think it means?"

"Ishgard is going to change. And we'll be the ones to end this damnable war."

He's a little frightened of Estinien's certainty.

* * *

Ishgard quibbled over rejoining the Eorzean Alliance but the Archbishop resisted and besides - the dragons were swarming, going more berserk than usual. They could send chocobos - their blight had given way to a population explosion so the stables were bursting and they needed the coin but they would send no more aid than that.

But a hook formed behind his navel, a song who's words escaped him, resounded maddeningly in his mind, He'd prowl around the borders of Coerthas with Estinien and the other dragoons, keeping an eye for the patrols as the dragoon taught young Gridanian lancers - and sometimes adventurers - how to leap like dragoons and ran from the patrols like mischievous children.

Dragoons didn't listen to the rules of propriety and etiquette very often. Their eccentrics were tolerated even accepted as a necessary in their neverending campaign against their draconic foes.

And the red moon loomed closer and the dragons roared.

The hook in his navel, the persistent buzz of his soul words that he was becoming more and more sure the person who matched this mark was the other half of his soul, who's aether would become his compass.

Scandals and Dravania - it was quite enough to choke any attempts to send troops to Carteneau. No matter how much his soul mark burned at that for days afterwards.

With the Congregation like a kicked hornet's nest and the red moon looming low, he slipped to the highest tower of the city, followed by Estinien.

"Aymeric!"

"They're marching!"

"Who?!"

"The Eorzean Alliance."

The battle at Carteneau in Mor Dhona – the ruined heart of Eorzea - was fuzzy even in his mentor's spyglass, the explosions distant the red in the sky and the meteors streaking through the air like dragon fire.

Estinien twitched, the wyvern roars faint.

"Aymeric - "

"Go,"

He had his duty - they both did - but it was psychically painful at this point for Aymeric to leave his self-appointed watch post. Even with dragons to fight, Estinien left reluctantly.

The song was louder and his words burned. He peeled off his glove, startled to see it glowing dimly, shifting for words to a simple pattern, like _la foudre._

The roar of battle seemed to press on his ears, his distant sight blurring to face a battle field roiling with bodies, Garleans and Eorzeans alike falling in the fields, a line of magitek walkers marching towards them.

And the scene blurred, a massive chunk of rock laced with blue - like a sword piercing the ground, sending up dust and debris.

His vision returned to itself, leaving him gasping - and watched with unblinking eyes, blood congealed to pudding in his veins as the moon -

The red moon, Menphina's loyal hound.

The red moon, ever small in the sky loomed now.

The red moon hovered far too close, blue lines pulsating like veins

\- and _cracked open_ , like an egg, like a boulder from a trainee thaumaturge's lava spell.

Cracked open and scattered a dying nebula of dust and fire in the sky.

And dragon wings – that he didn't need a spyglass to see – stretched into the sky and spread, eclipsing the southern skies, as if it were blight on the carrot crops.

Halone preserve us. The word were lost on the way to his lips.

Meteors, fire - the whole sky was blood red, filled with fire and the echoing roar thundering across the crimson-tinged vault of sky.

Not again. Not like this. He couldn't tear eyes anyway, memories of Nidhog's last rampage flashing in his mind.

A dragon. A dragon _in the moon_. A dragon unleashed on the whole realm.

Fear that was not his crashed within, sharpening to anger and confusion.

Ishgard had not answered the call. Had they failed their people? Ishgard had not answered the call. Had they failed the realm?

He was feeling his soul match and his soul words burned something awful.

In a distance field, in an itch in his brain, he felt a pause and then - someone… was hugging his mind? A feeling of regret, of resolve -

He tried to hold on - Don't - Wait - but the deep sigh made him reconsider.

He stopped resisting.

Halone...and Byregot be with you.

As if run through, his hand burned and his scream was lost to his ears as the pain race up his arm, stabbing into his heart.

He crumpled - he may have been screaming - and there was only relief when darkness claimed him.

* * *

His left arm felt like fire, his mouth was slimy and gross. His ears rang and everything ached. His heart ached. He jerked up, invoking a cry from someone else that he took no notice off as he ripped up the sleeve.

The words were gone. Only faint outlines remained, and blackened scars like lightning charred his skin.

Aymeric stared blankly until the chirurgeon touched the wounded skin and he pulled away sharply like a wounded animal, burying his face into his pillow before he could cry out his anguish to the room.

The ache throbbed.

Like a dragon's dying breath.

The ache seared.

His breath hitched

She had known. She regretted. She sacrificed.

He only becomes aware when the tears fade and he comes back to himself, his head throbs and his heart feels lighter and he seems to have soaked Estinien's shoulder. The young dragoon did not mock or scold, just patted his back and offered hot tea.

"I had to carry you back," Estinien says. "You collapsed in the tower."

"What - "

"Hush now," Estinien ordered and shoved a muffin into his hand.

The whole sordid tale spills out - 'tell no one, ma petite', his mother had rasped - but this was his best friend, guided to him by Halone. He left nothing out the headaches, the all-too brief psychic bond, the dreams... feeling her die.

"We can put down some flowers," he suggests. Comfort really wasn't Estinien's forte.

There's a moment of hesitation before Estinien peels off his bandages - his soul mark - a strange stylistic line of symbols - is faded too.

It was the one time he allowed Estinien to collect enough liquor to hammer them both in near-oblivion. All that did was trigger was more grief and a crying jag he would be grateful that Estinien did not bring it up.

* * *

In the days that followed, with Coerthas hit by unending snowstorms and the fading meteors, and the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly righting itself, Aymeric tried to pull together his tattered soul, and dodging the priests and chirurgeons and sticking close to Estinien whenever possible.

The words were a faint blurred outline almost invisible. Despite his grief, he was proud that his soul match had died defending her realm. He was also angry. They would have been a good match. They would have.

But he pushes through and Ishgard's problems and the mess he has inherited and the tactics he has to employ keeps his mind off the faded soul words most days.

On Blitzturn however- especially in the early and late hours - he'd mourn her, his soul match who died in the line of duty. As he likely would. He was proud but sometimes his grief overwhelmed logic. Really, Iceturn or Waterturn should be the day for this but he felt Blitzturn was more fitting, setting his violin to his chin and trying to recreate the tune in his mind.

The visions stopped. He laid flowers monthly on last Blitzturn instead of weekly. The hum was faint. His arm ached less.

It would likely never hold a shield properly again and it made drawing back an arrow a nightmare but that, at least was something he could work on. And when he drew the arrow back to its greatest draw, he could swear it hummed.

And his dreams were never nightmares, never stressed. Only pleasant fantasies that faded as soon as he woke. till, the loss of his soul match before he'd even had a chance to meet her, further fueled his interest in chatting with wandering merchants.

 _"There's them persons who'll be your kindred in soul,"_ one had said. _"mayhap into the next life. But those who's first Words are known to ye - they'll shake up yer life something fierce,"_

Would his life settle into this routine because she wouldn't be appearing to shake it up?

No - he could go. See the realm she died for. Speak to the people his mother once traded with.

And yet he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

* * *

The heavens kept turning. Winter continued to grip Coerthas regardless of moon and villages and outposts and vigils were abandoned. Stories of the those who laid their lives down at Carteneau made into the outposts and taverns, whispered in corners. And the years blurred. The Seventh Umbral Era was upon them and the dragons were more restless than they'd been in years.

And then there was Lucia. The Garlean spy who came to love Ishgard. He believed in redemption and second chances. Did ice not give way to spring?

It was amazing how scandals and complications distracted him from his grief. His left arm was practically useless so she always stood on his left. She was there when he was appointed the Lord Commander and Estinien loomed in the rafters with the other Dragoons.

He ignored his itching arm when it started up, save to scratch it and put some aloe on it before returning to his work. Training in the mornings, overseeing the pages, stiffing through paperworks.

Until one day, it sharpened like a jolt, provoking a cry in the middle of a meeting. Fortunately, the twinge of old wounds were not uncommon; Alberic joked that he should keep an eye for falling masonry or worse the Brume settling in.

It wasn't until he was in private quarters that he could look.

Y _ou seem to have me at a disadvantage, Aymeric_ was neatly, if slightly spikily printed exactly where the previous set had been - this time in purple the color of lightning.

Both rage and elation warred within him. He didn't _want_ another soul match!

After so long with strange echoes and visions and hummed soul words and then to feel her die at Carteneau, he threw himself into his duties to Ishgard though his desire to open the gates - to see the realm his first soul match died for. He didn't want another.

Well, that anger lasted for all of a few hours - when he went to bed in a bad mood, jamming his left arm where he couldn't see it - and the song resounded in his mind and he dreamt of crystals and storms.

He wordlessly showed Estinien the next day - you didn't typically show soul marks but they were brothers of the soul so…

Estinien stares blanky for a long moment before Aymeric prompts him. Estinien reveals his own mark - in the same place as last time.

 _You have a sense of drama, don't you?_ Estinien's words accuse and Aymeric cannot help laugh.

And then he begins to wonder at the timing.


	2. Aymeric: Lord Commander

If you love something or someone, let it go. If it comes back, its yours forever.

Originally Posted on Archive of Our Own: December 30, 2016

* * *

 **Aymeric: Lord Commander**

The High Houses of Ishgard like to marry the soul matched together. The practice wasn't so common now, as more than one marriage suffered or rebelled and it took a full scale Holy See intervention to stop interference in soul matches.

Amarante had scoffed at the concept - the forced married of soulmatches, that is.

Aymeric had often wondered to his mother if he and his soul match were the same age, if they had a sense of humor, would they be Elezen (well, of course they would right?) or boy or girl. But the wonderings of children are all too soon overwhelmed by adult concerns though he was often sent out on patrols because he kept volunteering for them anyway.

They needed a border patrol – Aymeric. Escorting Coerthan refugees – Aymeric. Escorting merchant caravans – definitely Aymeric

And he had so hope to catch a glimpse, to see her, to meet her sneaking on with the dragoons but alas.

The loss of her – and of this he was certain – at Carteneau brought her sharply to the forefront of his thoughts. How could she have died when they were fated to meet?

Very easily unfortunately, as he learned when the clergy had to intervene in the bout of depression that settled over the city when many soul marks faded.

Outcry against the lack of Ishgardian intervention in the Battle of Carteneau rose and grumbles of discontent stirred the city. The loudest outcries subsided within a few weeks but the embers will still smoldering in the taverns of the city, quietly.

Lucia spots his lurking smile of thoughtfulness.

"We could use this, I suppose?"

"Of course. But... careful steps. Let's see what happens."

* * *

The various Fronts, Vigils, Camps and Forts fall under the purview of the Congregation of Our Knights Mostly Heavenly and meeting with the Outposts Captains were Aymeric's responsibility.

He relishes the chance to get out of the stone confines of Ishgard and had been doing it for his Knight Mentor for sometime.

He enjoys Lord Haurchefant's company the most. He knew him from Knightly training of course but Aymeric was a merchantress's son who married a highborn son from a lesser house (middleborn, Alberic called it), rumored to be the 'Archbishop's bastard' and Haurchefant was a count's son - however illegitimate. They didn't quite walk in the same circles.

Lord Haurchefant is especially helpful on this trip. Aymeric's Knight Mentor stepped down from the post of Lord Commander and there was a brief squabble in which he was sure it would go to Zephirin but both the previous Very Reverend Archmandrite and the Lord Commander stepped down at the same time and they were closing out their years with a pilgrimage.

He's always been intrigued by the Warriors of Light but his biannual tour of Coerthas is made more interesting when all of the Fort Captains have similar reports.

The Chief Astrologer Forlemont complains of a pair of adventurers and their companions who had been by and it doesn't stop there. Apparently, they had gone all through Coerthas, annoying and – bewilderingly – earning respect and making themselves useful. As much as they earned enemies, they made admirers.

The Hallienarte knights whispered that they had saved Francel from being unjustly thrown from Witchdrop – which was astonishing in itself. And apparently the inquisitor in question had been a heretic masquerading as one which was horrifying.

"Lord Haurchefant, perhaps you can shed some light," Aymeric said. "Why in the Fury's name does _everyone_ keep telling me about these adventurers?"

That was a mistake to ask it seems – Haurchefant is off and indulging him his poetics is also a mistake but it's such a welcome change, he doesn't bother to chide him for it. They _had_ saved his best friend after all and uncovered an insidious heretic wrongfully accosting people and saved a High House from utter disgrace.

Shockingly, Drillemont is equally - if more reservedly - effusive. They would definitely have to look at the Inquisition - it was harsh by necessity but there was little need to make things worse.

* * *

Since his soulwords had reformed, a peace had settled over his dreams and sleep. Even if, the world was falling apart around him, his dreams were peaceful, like all the tension was drawn out

He was certain that it was ... similar to what had happened the last time but less - random visions and more settled.

It felt like he gained a sort of letter friend in his mind -

The first time he'd felt it, had been two days after the words reappeared (and he mostly finished sulking about it) a current of smugness and fond exasperation when he was trying ram an important lesson about propriety and decency into a perfectly horrible squire's thick skull and shove away the foreign feeling violently.

The entity recoiled.

Aymeric waved to one of the better pupils, not really caring if the horrible squire got thwacked a few times in his ribs and over the head.

Confused and inexperienced with direct manipulation of aether, he fumbled and poked at the sensation. The entity jabbed back in turn, clearly frustrated.

Well, he was wondering this... thing was doing here. And if he needed to see a priest or priestess for an exorcism.

Upon feeling a wave of indignation, he knew he'd probably offended the enity and felt an (irrational, he thought) guilt. He was pretty sure voidsent would not be offended.

Once safely tucked in his office - which was bigger than he would like sometimes - sifting through reports, he had the feeling of someone leaning over his shoulder curiously, wave of wonder.

He winced; he wasn't entirely pleased with the situation but that was no excuse to be rude. and cautiously sent a wave of apology.

She was amused and something like a comforting squeeze wrapped around his hand.

So apparently there was now a faint mind presence of his soul match in the back of his mind. She was amused, confident and mischievous; he had the sense of a rolling storm drifting through the sky; the image was surprisingly relaxing though whenever he was annoyed, she would tried to prod him with waves of violence. He was pretty sure was she doing so to make him laugh.

Unfortunately, she didn't appear to live a relaxing life. His days swung between the humdrum and the frantic. But she was always buzzing and her calm had an undercurrent of slight exhilarated panic. It made him more stoic than usual to the point of drawing commentary but if he wasn't sure about the dreams and soul words before, he was most definitely not sure about the apparent psychic bond that was happening.

Through sharp dips of calm, exhilaration, excitement and outright terror and anger and despair somehow Aymeric did not lose his mind though he tried his best to convey assurance and support.

And - the presence felt achingly familiar. But it couldn't be... Could it?

* * *

Aymeric pinched the bridge of his nose, the clamor of the Congregation faintly echoing through the doors of the infirmary. Once again, Ishgard did not aid their neighbors and once again something happens that suggests they should have.

"And you are certain?"

"As clear as I hear you now!" the young dragoon is almost fresh out of training and has been wrapped in a thick blanket by his seniors.

"The roar of a mighty dragon echoed with our minds... our bones," Heustienne whispered.

"Much like the Day of Dragons Hell," Estinien's voice broke in, announcing his presence.

Estinien was almost never seen without his azure armor and it was the same now, though he laid his lance in the rack by the door.

"Azure Dragoon!"

"Lay down, elfling," Heustienne scolded him and pushed him over.

"Estinien did you have - "

"Of course I did."

The dream had descended on the dragoons en mass – the roar of a great wyrm, beneath Eorzea, shortly after they had claimed victory over Castrum Meridianum.

* * *

Several weeks later, Aymeric burst into Alberic's apartment without knocking, frantic, a question on his lips – but the look of the retired Azure Dragoon told him all he needed to know.

Estinien had stolen the Eye.

It's nightmarish; the Knights can't find him _because a he's a dragoon and they're weird_ and the Dragoons are conflicted and split and Heustienne is in charge – she's always in charge _anyway_ because Estinien is not a commander by stretch of the imagination.

It's probably a tradition started by Haldrath Dragonseye, if he's being honest.

Alberic is desperate, the Holy See is frothing and the Dragoons are either going mutiny or erupt into civil war so Aymeric practically throws the papers for leave at Alberic and assigns a 'top notch team' that are being paid to go train when they're 'investigating Estinien' but Alberic wants to hire adventurers and he's desperate enough to stop the spiral of destruction.

After Alberic is gone and the tension has left him, he has a vague sensation that something interesting is going to happen.

Unfortunately, several weeks later he is proven right.

Alberic calls him breathlessly and Aymeric almost flies out of the Congregation, fearing the worst.

But he's confronted with an injured Estinien in Ser Alberic's Ishgard home with the dragoon physician present.

He looks as if he fought five (small) drakes at once and then dragged him through Coerthas.

Considering last he heard a competent adventurer and her conjurer companion had taken the job, Aymeric has to pause in the doorway in confusion.

… It had worked? He'd despaired because if they were competent _why had it taken weeks_? But here his friend laid, bruised by alive. They succeeded?

"I am not," Estinien growled. " the subject of a tragic painting,"

"By the Fury, what did you do?"

Alberic tells most of it and the tale is too wild to believe - that the Eye roused to another, that the femme in question - Isarette, Estinien insisted - spoke his soul words, she'd _become a dragoon,_ Nidhogg's influence had nearly overwhelmed Estinien and she'd thrashed him so thoroughly that she beaten out Nidhogg's influence and admonished Estinien at lance point.

Oh and did we mention she (and her companion) were two of the Champions of Eorzea, Primalsbane?

Aymeric sits down very hard and stares.

But Estinien is smirking - no, no - he's grinning _outright._ Aymeric has to do a double-take. "I almost can't wait to see what she'll do,"

Aymeric stares at his friend in confusion and then at Alberic who shrugs helplessly as if he too thinks the experience has made Estinien slightly mad.

"You've had far too much excitement already," Aymeric decides. "If I see you anywhere but here, I will tie you up and drag you back myself."

Estinien groans and Aymeric points a vicious finger. "You kicked the hornet's nest into a full den of coeurls, _stay put_."

Estinien is forgiven (eventually) but they keep the whole 'by the way one of the Luminaries is the second Azure Dragoon' to themselves because Aymeric cannot _begin_ to poke at how to handle that … thing.

* * *

The Eorzean Alliance has been pressing for Ishgard to rejoin them. The last few meetings ended with rather snappish and abrupt departures and now it is the Scions of the Seventh Dawn - a neutral organization dedicated to the realm at large – that harries them. Though, at least they're more polite about it.

After several harried delegates, Aymeric decides to meet their ambassador himself. He has forces who are spread too thin and he recognizes that their continued isolation would only harm them in the future. He often found himself staring at small camps or outposts or bandaging wounds under the eyes of hospitaller, wishing they had Gridanian conjurers or Ul'Dahn alchemists – that they could call _for help._

Though he didn't have high hopes, his morale was lifted by the idea that one of the Champions of Eorzea would coming to the meeting and Lucia rolled her eyes fondly at his poorly repressed energy.

He devoured every bit of information he could about the Luminaries, Champions of Eorzea, Warriors of Light (their list of epithets was rather impressive) but truth be told he'd more anxious to meet at least one because of the Azure Dragoon Problem.

He gets a mental pat on the back and a faint sense of bemusement; he doesn't think she's being very sympathetic.

Lord Haurchefant of Fort Dragonhead arranges the meeting and provides the setting.

Dragonhead is a comfortable ground for all parties – Ambassador Leveilleur and his compatriots had called upon Haurchefant's aid a few times before and it is in Coerthas lands.

The Intercessory is warm when he and Lucia enters where Lord Haurchefant awaits with two guests – the Ambassador is barely passed his age of majority and his size shows it.

"I apologize. The Luminaries declined the meeting."

And it's all downhill from there really.

The meeting with the Scions' ambassador - the young Alphinaud Leveilleur - was disappointing in every way. It was the same arguments about 'how it would benefit Ishgard to join the Eorzean Alliance'.

Abstractly, it would be benefit them, yes. However, the young ambassador had brought nothing new to the table and could not promise any aid regarding the Keeper of the Lake either. According to Haurchefant, the idea of a fourth Grand Company to attend to the needs of the realm at large was running in a number of problems – mostly in the forms of organization, concerns and disagreements. As for the Ixal problem – they harried Gridania, so it wasn't really Ishgard's concern. If other nations wanted to get entangled in other's internal affairs, fine but Ishgard has a pile of internal affairs of their own, thank you very much.

Lucia quietly offered to (attempt to) salvage the situation afterwards; Aymeric felt a heavy lead ball of disappointment even as he nodded.

He had hoped, if he could meet just one of Warrior of Light, he could take steps towards resolving this 'Champion of Eorzea as Azure Dragoon' … thing, that had had happened.

That and Estinien seemed to be … _better_ than before (if that was possible) and he was _curious_.

Accepting Lucia's offer, he quietly asked Haurchefant's aide – who was overseeing things in the courtyard - if there was any work to be done. There was a monstrous beast that needed tending to – it wasn't a dragon but he wasn't a _dragoon;_ killing dragons singlehandedly was Estinien's job. Besides, they were poor targets when you just wanted to work off frustration.

Unfortunately, just then several knights came in exclaiming over the prowess of 'Luminary Arshad' and shuddering at apparently the mess of blood she'd left all over -

Wait. 'Luminary Arshad?' Could it be? Maybe this day was not a complete disappointment?

"No one injured I hope?" he inquired mildly.

"Lord Commander!" they hastily snapped salutes though there some wincing.

"At ease," he said with some impatience.

"What happened?" Corteniaux asked. "You were _patrolling_ ,"

"Yes, sir, we were! However..." the knight trailed off embarrassed and his comrade picked up the tale.

"A caravan attracted the attention of a redhorn ogre ser,"

Corteniaux eye's narrowed. "I thought clearing them off was an assigned duty."

Aymeric hummed, wondering precisely what was going on here.

"Yes, of course sir! But please, remember they are formidable - "

"But they're not dragons," Corteniaux noted, voice thick with accusations.

"Seems rather stupid to be at Fort Dragonhead if we're not slaying dragons," one muttered.

"Then why..." Aymeric said mildly. "Did you not join the Knights Dragoon?"

Ignoring his possible reply, Aymeric turned to the third knight with an expectant eyebrow raise. "We screwed up, ser," she said bluntly. "Redhorn ogres would have gorged the lot of us if Lady Arshad - "

"Mistress - "

The knight glared at her comrade and he felt silent. "If Luminary Arshad hadn't dropped from the sky and kicked that beastie into the seventh hell, we would be a messy stain on the road."

He glanced at Corteniaux to confirm what he's hearing who nods. "So, I trust she took care of the beast that's been harrying us,"

"She did, ser,"

"...dropped." Aymeric interjected for clarification. "From the sky."

The knights nodded earnestly.

"Where is she now?"

The third knight dramatically cupped her ear towards the training yards and now that he was paying attention there was the clatter of … was that a sword breaking into pieces?

"I heard though, that Miles left a charred corpse of one 'em," the knight said though Aymeric was no longer listening.

If she _had_ come to Fort Dragonhead, why not to the meeting?

Nerves and anticipation, building, he nodded to the knights in thanks for their report and left them to be reamed out by their lieutenant. A number of interested knights had gathered at the yard but at least they were doing things – tending to weapons, their mail, warming up – and not standing about. There was a knight standing looking dejected; there was a broken sword at her hip and several knights look slightly bruised.

In the center of the yard was a knight in Fortemps chainmail and an odd adventurer.

… Had she just been here the entire time thrashing knights (and killing redhorn ogres)?

Bearing a long sword in her left hand adorned with simple dark brown wrist wraps, the Highlander Hyuress had a smirk on and warm, dark brown skin - as an old tree in full summer - her black hair tied into a bun, exposing a gold-trimmed dark blue headpiece across her brow. A violet tattoo was visible on her shoulder from under the simple black chest wrap she wore and a colorful sash, exposing her midriff to the cold - and sharp blade though all attempts to attack her center were parried and countered. Her gold-edged dark blue sabatons over the black breeches looked like they'd hurt. Her bright clothes were a welcome splash of color in the Coerthan chill that had become the norm.

Her opponent lunged, twisting his sword around his opponent's and smoothly disarming her –

and she dropped to a hand, feet flicking outward and kicked the sword of his hand, popping up and ramming both feet into his chest, sending him flying back before dropping in a crouch and flipping back to her feet, barely out of breath.

A wave of satisfaction and smugness rolled over the bond and a chime pulsed behind his eyes, humming on his skin.

"That's cheating!" a knight bellowed.

"I call it surviving," she said, unfazed. "I find it useful to employ multiple forms of combat," she said to the crowd of knights. "You have your specialties... I have mine.

Her eyes flicked around the training yard, clearly looking for a new victim. There were no volunteers.

So, this was Kreszenta Arshad - Luminary of the Blitz, Champion Ascendant - among other grand titles. She certainly looked formidable though he could tell she was slightly uncomfortable with the longsword that she plucked from the ground.

He stepped forward, eyes steady as their gazes met. And Held.

Paused, still, a familiar coil of delight and glee, doubling.

A small gasp rippled through the crowd but he didn't hear it over the chime echoing through his mind, reverberating and the slow smile creasing her visage.

 _Found you_.

At her grin, he realized he'd just volunteered to spar with the Luminary Ascendant, leader of the Champions of Eorzea. The woman they said, punched with the force of a meteor and 'kicked a redhorn ogre into the seventh hell'. Those things were enormous. Of course there was also the small of matter of her regular slaying primals...

This could go either very badly or very well.

A tiny smile, curved his lips as he stepped across from her, sword already in his hand. And she... sheathed her longsword into nothingness?

Smiling at his confusion, unhooked her hora - and he stared. Those were not hora but long blades mounted sturdy wrist straps, each as easily long as a dagger.

"Don't look so worried, Aymeric," she grinned as the soul words on his arm hummed. "You have me at a disadvantage,"

And then she charged in a blur of sped, katars slashing towards his head.

* * *

3385 Words

elfling (or elf) - an Elezen Child (i couldn't resist)

*sheathing the longsword into nothingness* - The Armory System in Action! I headcanon that the Sharlayans invented it (likely for less war-like things) but then the Adventurer's Guild acquired and adopted the system through a Sharlayan-born individual.

Kreszenta is wearing three sets - The Midan Mask of Striking, the Augmented Tantra Chestwrap (Dalamud Red), the Tantra Wristwraps, the Gordian Striking Sabatons (Currant Purple) and Breeches (Jet Black) (Yes. I am aware she wouldn't have these at the current stage of the story - Dreams of Ice - but I am taking liberties!)

The inexactness of the words spoken compared to the ones on Aymeric's arm was intentional.


	3. Aymeric: Soulmatched

_Originally posted on Ao3: January 5th, 2017_ _Three more chapters forthcoming._

This Chapter: Their bond muted by time and space, Aymeric finally meets his soulmatch properly and his day takes a swing towards the salvageable even if heretics are trying to ruin it.

* * *

 **Aymeric: Soulmatched**

One would think that a longer sword would give him an advantage.

He lunged back, sword up in a block and pivoted from the blur of movement - a powerful kick to the gut sent him backwards, nearly driving the wind out of him. That was going to leave a mark even through his armor.

"I can calm it down a bit,"

"Please," He readjusted his grip on his sword. "I can ill-afford to be laid abed because of a practice bout."

She grinned. "Who said this was practice?"

She blurred and the rattling of metal was his only sign before it was a flurry of striking blades. They were only inches apart, Aymeric's blade flicking in parry and block.

He didn't use a shield and that wasn't really a choice but a thing that had just happened. It was helpful because it made him faster – and he found himself grinning as they whirled, crashed, parried, never stopping, darting in and out of each other's reach. Elezen did not have superb upper body strength. Highlander Hyur did. It was very likely that up close in other circumstances - she would flatten him.

But she wasn't trying to flatten him. It wasn't even really a sparring match, so much as... a conversation. A letter of introduction. And she was grinning and so was he – he had never had so much fun sparring.

Though it would be nice if they'd picked wooden mock-ups rather than live weapons.

Their blades met with a rattling clash, her katars scraping from the attempted and aborted stab, catching on his long sword. Unbalanced, the blades slipped.

"I do believe you're genuinely trying to kill me," So why in Fury's name was he grinning?

Her grin was more of a smirk. "Lord Commander," She drove him back two steps. "You'd _know_ if I was trying to kill you."

"It's poor sport going for my head."

"Well…yes." She agreed. "But in my experience, military commanders can go toe to toe with a Luminary,"

...Was that a challenge?

It took but a twist to free himself, though the wind was knocked out of him as her shoulder rammed into his sternum - so he rolled away and jumped to the surprised gasp of the onlookers he had forgotten about.

Well, his best friend was the Azure Dragoon. ... _an_ Azure Dragoon.

His legs flared in protest when he landed and he threw up his sword in a block as Kreszenta darted for him, bringing the katars singing forward.

"Lord Commander!"/"Luminary Ascendant!"

His blade _did_ stop her attack, sending vibrations through them both - and a jolt of blitz?

"I think," he drawled, staring up at her from under his blade. "sparring with you is akin to fighting for my life,"

"Sorry," she retracted and sheathed her katars into her strange belt. "Suzume's always yelling at me to 'hit harder' and the Twelvesblades find it insulting when I hold back. Maybe you're not use to me yet?" She pulled back, offering a hand up. He eyed it suspiciously but she looked perfectly sincere - if amused - so he accepted it, letting her pull him to his feet.

"That could be it." The ever present buzz and chime in his being had faded to replaced with peace, though his mind still clamored. Did she realize?

Lucia and Alphinaud were standing amongst the knights - Lucia looking frightened for his life, Alphinaud furious though Haurchefant had a bright look on his face that Aymeric couldn't begin to interpret.

"Milord!" Heads snapped around and the speaker stopped flustered and snapped a salute at Haurchefant. "Apologies! The shipments – they've been attacked, It was Iceheart, milord."

"What?! By the Fury? All our preparations were for naught?!"

"Of bloody course they have," Kreszenta grumbled, disengaging and rolling her neck and tapped her linkpearl. "Hydaen, mind coming to Coerthas? … Yes, you. Bring Miss Stabby-Stab along. … Do you want O'ya to freeze? No, I didn't … rude."

Aymeric let his shoulders roll over, feeling muscles that he didn't normally use creak in protest.

"Luminary Ascendant," Alphinaud sounded appalled as he approached. "I thought you declined to attend?"

"After a fashion," She rolled her shoulders and pulled out a long red coat with silver detailing and black from her odd - likely magical - belt, settling the red coat around her shoulder. "I trust you're concerned about the shipment - likely for Revenant's Toll so two of the others are coming to help,"

Alphinaud hummed, clearly still displeased and inclined his head. "Very well then. My thanks."

As Alphinaud, Lucia and Haurchefant disappeared to discuss the shipments, Luminary Arshad tilted her head towards the walls of the Fort.

The knights scattered to their various duties looking at them both curiously but Aymeric took a deep breath of the bracing Coerthan air, letting it settle him and fell into step with her as if this was normal occurrence.

His soul words hummed impatiently against his arm, a hum resounding in his mind as well. The walls around the fort saw for quite a distance though he couldn't say 'malms' without being wrong- due to the fog.

"I expected you to be more frustrated,"

He stopped midstep, the final piece, realization clicking into place. Tucked into the shadows of the fort, he turned sharply, half a spitting retort on his lips.

She was studying him, head tilted. Her eyes were mismatched - one a warm brown, the one a warm black, something violet crackling in the depths. From the shoulders to the arms, the legs- she was very Highlander reminding him of the monks he'd seen as a child and - and he might be older than her.

Had she ever seen a proper monk from Ala Mhigo?

A thousand questions were abruptly on his lips and he couldn't get them all out at once. Why wasn't she at the meeting, why was she thrashing Lord Haurchefant's knights, could she provide a better solution, could he talk to her about her comrade who was a Luminary and an Azure Dragoon, could he talk to her, just talk, wasn't she cold, why - how -

She was practically buzzing with energy, standing directly in his space where she'd been three paces away and when her fingers tapped over his jaw, everything sharpened. He trembled from her mere proximity. His voice cracked, his shell cracked and she was hugging him and - when was the last time he'd hugged anyone? Properly?

His breath hitched, air hard to breathe and she tucked her head under his chin, humming something leaning into him and - and -

He had things to do, Lord Commander things -

She hummed, the tune familiar and soothing - the stabbing phantom pain lanced up his left arm, a memory of five years past. His arms looped around her shoulders, shaking and lost, breath shortening, too short and she hummed and rocked them back and forth.

He breathed, raggedly deeply and felt dampness on his cheeks and didn't care too much that he'd been crying without noticing and she was rubbing his hand in circles and his breath fell into a pattern with hers and his heart stuttered, his breath hitched.

She hummed and he remembered the sight of a rumbling storm gathering over Coerthas and the rain lightly falling on the window glass.

He felt himself calm.

Everything calmed. Stilled. His soul words stopped humming, the ache in his arm vanished and he clung tighter than he meant to, and sighed when she wrapped around him tighter, borrowed into him as if clinging to a lifeline.

"I felt you die."

She sighed and seemed to cling to him tighter. "I know," There was no apology in her voice, only regret. Regret that she had to.

He drew in a sharp breath, an ache building.

"I'll not apologize," Kreszenta added, steadily. "I had my duty,"

Aymeric let out a breath, his emotions unbridled. "I know," he said, eyes still closed. "If I could not know you, meet you - I could be proud, I was proud. That you gave your life for your realm."

"You don't give a damn about that right now,"

His bark of laughter was muffled into her collarbone, clinging to another being like he hadn't done since he was an young Elezen.

She was here. Alive. Returned to him. _Rematched_ to him.

Thank you, Halone.

He knew, he was sure - his regular vigils on Blitzturn had morphed gradually over these last few moons into moments, he'd just relax and let her feel everything he was as he played the violin, echoing in the stone halls of the Bascilia.

"You came back," His voice was laced with confusion.

"You felt me disappear. Not die."

He was very confused but set that aside for later. "It was terrible,"

"I know,"

 _"Kreszenta, you are ignoring me. I will come after you."_ She sighed at the linkpearl chiming in her ear.

"I'm in a meeting," she said, clinging to Aymeric.

 _"You are lying."_

"I am most certainly am not. Help Haurchefant find the supplies."

 _"We've already -"_

"Isarette, please."

 _"… Fine, ring me when you're are available."_

But the moment was broken and Aymeric cleared his throat, stepping back. "We should probably return,"

"Don't get all embarrassed now," she teased. "And if you call me Luminary, I will never call you Aymeric again. Oh!" she stepped back and grinned. "I'm Kreszenta Arshad. Thavnair-born, Ala Mhigan-blood, Eorzea in heart. I'm an adventurer, my family are merchants and chocobokeeps and my mother is the one who taught me how to destroy people in one hit."

A smile threatened to crack his visage.

"By the Builder, are all Ishgardians so reserved?"

"Well... I suppose I can now admit with little shame that I have followed the activities of you and yours with an interest bordering on fascination." he confessed, the smile contained. "Full glad was I to learn that you would be joining us."

"And disappointed when I didn't." she tilted her head. "So, tell me about yourself."

He sighed. "You are going to be insufferable."

Her smile was bright. "Yes, I am,"

"I'm Aymeric the Blue," he intoned so dully he almost cracked a smile at her 'really?' expression. "I'm a Temple Knight, my mother and father were also merchants, unfortunately deceased and I like birch syrup,"

"Eh... we'll work on it." She rolled her shoulders, at ease and casual. He was jealous of her composure. "So, I have a pretty good feeling that meeting with Alphinaud fell on its face."

"Yes." They wandered towards the upper walls of the Fort Dragonhead. "It was a rather useless meeting. Perhaps if you'd deigned to show up - "

"I hate meeting in enclosed spaces. Kan-E's Lotus Stand is open, Raubahn and I usually talk over drinks or sparring and Merlwyb never sits down. The Intercessory is tiny and overheated. I was in there before - I felt like I was going to pass out. So!" She clapped her hands, beaming. "How 'bout I salvage the rest of your day?"

"You are just as smug in person," he nodded distractedly at the saluting knights.

"I promise I'm more reserved around strangers. I did, didn't I?"

He was unable to repress a smile as he tapped his fingers in thought. "That remains to be seen..." the Azure Dragoon Problem, the Eorzean Alliance, the Ixal Question, the Keeper of the Lake...

"The ambassador didn't come to the table with anything new," he explained. "Just the same repetitions."

"Such as..."

"Joining the Eorzean Alliance,"

"Well, if Ishgard were to open its gates, you would receive visitors which would mean a circulation of ideas and services." she pointed out. "For example ' the Ixal's settlement was largely ignored - "

"The Ixal harry Gridania, _not_ \- " He stopped, went over her words again and frowned. "Beg pardon, settlement?"

"See? Hydaen went on a whole little campaign about it. But, yes - Ixal are taking full advantage of Ishgardian disinterest and building settlements here. _Natalan_ is right over _there_ , by the Builder!" She pointed to the east.

"Fortunately, Gridania's White Rams - an anti-Ixali contingent affiliated with the God's Quiver - or was it Quiverhold? - stomp out Ixal incursions wherever they are. Though- fun fact if you manage to befriend the Ixal - or a certain friendly tribe of them anyway - there's a whole airship sector they have going on."

Aymeric had to take a moment to parse her rambling commentary.

"Ah... Let's shelf that one for now. Belmont, a former White Ram, requested Hydaen's assistance in investigating Ixal incursions. This was... actually when we were looking for the Enterprise,"

"Ah. You cause quite a stir."

"No, no - _Isarette and Hydaen_ caused a stir. I was elsewhere, performing daring rescues."

He couldn't decide if she was like this all the time or if she deliberately acting like this to make him laugh. "And do you have proof or reports of these claims?"

"Of my daring rescues?"

Aymeric failed to fight off a laugh, rewarded by her wry grin. "No! The Ixal."

"Witnesses and records both," she chimed. "Lucky for you, Hydaen has the best handwriting of the eight of us. That was actually voted on. I'll get a copy for you."

Aymeric blinked.

"We do keep chronicles. It's a little ridiculous really - we have a whole box full of the things."

Aymeric frowned. He was going to have revisit the Ixal problem, clearly. Though given the attitude regarding non-draconician enemies, getting the See to _do_ anything about it - or the knights they ordered to something about it to get it their full attention - was going to be an uphill battle.

A chime of linkpearl interrupted his thoughts and Kreszenta winced as well, hand going to her ear.

"This is the Lord Commander,"

"By the Crystal, Isa, what - "

"The heretics are going to summon a primal," Lucia announced.

Oh no.

Aymeric looked at Kreszenta - she was frozen, mid-indignation. "Of bloody course they are. I'll be there. Grab Kelt for me."

Lucia told him briskly they were meeting at Whitebrim Front; she couldn't use aetherytes which meant they often rode anywhere they needed to go. Having his steed nearby would be wisest...

Dropping the connection, she stretched her arms over her head. "We're the Champions of Eorzea; we're not bound to any one city-state though I will say we do have favorites."

"So, you will help us."

"You're still Eorzea. And one day, we'll convince you of that. Besides, I'm supposed to shake up your life aren't I?"

"Is that all?"

"Oh, don't give me that look!" she clapped him on the shoulder as she passed. "You're stuck with me."

He felt a wave of relief - a detail that she did not miss.

They had had little time to discuss it. He was bursting with questions - about soul marks, about herself, the Luminaries, the business Ambassador Leveilleur couldn't help him with.

"Glad to hear it. Where to?"

"Seems the trouble's around Snowcloak, so it's Whitebrim. Congrats - you get to see if all the stories about us are true."

"Are they?"

"Oh... I don't know. _That_ depends on who you've been listening to."

* * *

2,582 Words

I'm also writing this because I'm writing a long fic starting in ARR and there are _many_ chapters between me and 'Dreams of Ice'. T_T


	4. Kreszenta: Companions

Originally Posted on A03 on Posted: 1/21/2017 Posted Here: 2/10/2017

* * *

Kreszenta: Companions

Kreszenta flopped back against the fluffy mattress with an 'ommph!' before rolling over with an exhausted sigh. The Palace of Ul had amazing bedding but she hardly felt at rest. Her head was spinning from her duties. She almost missed wandering around in a turban and visor, presumed dead by most of Eorzea.

She was on the verge of slaughtering the Immortal Flames they were working with out of frustration so Keltmygran shooed her off and told her to let him take care of the impending investigations for awhile. Her head throbbed and she closed her eyes against the dim-lighting of the guest chambers. The traitor within the Flames, fending off status-climbing merchants, negotiating with the various Free Companies... She was just glad _she_ didn't manage the whole of the Twelvesblades. She'd go mad.

Lifting her hand above her face, she noted that her long fingers were rough and dirt-coated, obvious when compared the paler wefts of her fingers. Was it too much to ask for Ul'Dah to get its shit together?

The Echo, Minfilia had said, affected the soulmarks in unusual ways. The most prominent example being the Luminaries themselves - all soulmatched to each other, forming a closed circle. Usually people didn't _share_ that many soulmatches. But there was also the fact that at least three of them had soulmatches to people the other Luminaries _did not_ share.

Another side-effect Echo plus soulmarks seemed to be a low-level psychic bond. Which was _super_ helpful. Thancred was very jealous.

As if sensing her pique, her ankle hummed, almost in inquiry, bringing a smile to her lips and she curled up, wrapping a hand around the broad anklet of blue feathers, words printed there in an elegant hand, a splash of color on her dark skin and let the humming relax her as it always did, cool blue images flickering in her vision.

Around her wrist, were marks that were often mistaken for tattoos - a circle of rhombuses, each slightly a different shape - one was a snowflake, one a water drop, the next stone, fire, wind, shadow and light.

One for each of her fellow Warriors of Light.

The blue anklet was special though. Not only because the others didn't share it but because there were a few times when she was a child that she thought it would fade.

It wasn't at all unusual - the fates were not so immutable as some idiots would have folks believe. Fate is often to tied fellow mortals and mortals are nothing if fickle.

She was born in Thavnair but when her parents brought her back to Eorzea, to Ala Mhigo, the vibrant purple soulmark traced across her tiny ankle as an infant, her mother had said, vibrant and purple. And when they fled the King Theodoric's growing hostility towards the monks, fearing their children and the future of the Fists of Rhalgr, it had dimmed - much to her distress, provoking gushing tears.

"Now, now _shatzi_. As long as your soulmatch's mark is solid, there's a chance you can meet."

Soulmarks were complicated - as were people.

She thought the anklet elegant as a girl and remained fond of it - though it had dimmed to frustration as the rhombus marks appeared on her wrist.

* * *

The girl who would be Kreszenta Arshad rather liked her soul mark. It was on her right hand - her offhand. It was a rhombus like shape on her wrist. It reminded her of a snowflake and she quite adored it.

Her mother pressed a gentle thumb to the mark, obscuring it. She was dark, solid, tall, protective - a firmer presence than many of the Thavnairian ladies in the streets, with her fierce face paint. "On your right wrist - your off-hand. They'll be someone to rely on,"

"We can only hope they won't be from Ishgard," her father muttered and was swiftly thumped on the head by his wife but he just chuckled.

The girl - Savitri - tilted her head. "But Vatti, we live in Thavnair?"

"For now." he said cryptically. "Or that might fade."

She looked stricken and her mother glared at him. "Ah, but don't' worry about that for now," he said hastily, ruffling her hair. "Soulmarks are more complicated than they appear but then again, so are Spoken."

.

.

.

"We're not going to Ala Mhigo?" Savitri's tiny face was the picture of devastation, her huge eyes, pouting lips emphasizing her despair.

Her parents winced and her mother knelt. "I'm afraid that's just not possible, dear one. Not anymore."

"But I wanted to see home! The clan hills! Mutti, Mutti - please - !"

"Nein." she said sharply. "There is no going back,"

Savitri flinched, eyes going wide.

Torvald knelt then, wrapping his arms around them both. "But home is right here. Never forget that,"

"But if we're not going to Ala Mhigo, where are we going?"

"To our people,"

.

.

.

Isarette's mark to her had appeared while Kreszenta was still called by her nest name and lived in Thavnair. When they finally moved back to Eorzea for good - to help their beleaguered people - there she meets a scruffy Duskwight girl, running from an angry merchant.

Savitri skidded in front him and punched him in the stomach before grabbing the girl's hand and running away to shouts of anger.

"So, who are you?!"

"Um… Sauvanne."

"Savitri! Whoops!" She danced out of the way of bellowing guard, under his sword and chopped it out of his hand. "Come on, Vanne!"

Her mother was more amused than upset when Savitri came back hiding in a crate with her new friend after running through Horizon, causing chaos and dumping more than one container on their pursuers.

Amala looked at her daughter with something like exasperation and fondness. The Duskwight Elezen girl hid behind Savitri as she explained the situation with all the indignation and excitement of a child. "He could spare some food! She's hungry!"

"So, let me get this straight," her mother said slowly, fighting a laugh. "The merchant had tons of food and was going throw out some so you decided to help yourself?"

"Oui, Madame,"

"But you were caught and he grabbed you so my daughter promptly intervened by 'flying at him and biting his wrist?'

The Duskwight girl cracked a smile at her description but Savitri looked unabashed.

"And then when the guards gave chase, you found yourself dragged along by my mad daughter - "

"Hey!"

"And she dropped several weighted loads on your captors and escaped back here, leaving chaos in her wake?"

By the end, the Duskwight girl was giggling. "Oui, Madame."

"Well! After all that, it'd be ashamed to toss you out. Come help set the table."

.

.

.

At twelve summers old, she doesn't need a nest name anymore. It's not quite determined by age - but by deed.

Sauvanne clutches the remnants of a much worn blanket, Savitri an old dream talisman

"You still children. But this is your first step towards becoming who you are. Whatever you may find."

The talisman and blanket caught in the lower brazier

"You are sisters now. Young one." Amalasuintha held out a hand to her and Isarette stepped forward, squeezing her blood into the bowl, letting it mix into the fire before squeezing hands with each of them. "You are Isarette, now." she declared, smiling. "Welcome to the family."

Her smile almost broke her face and it stayed there as Savitri stepped forward, accepting the swipe of temporary face paint across her face. "And you, my fierce little warrior are Kreszenta now."

.

.

.

They spent their days helping in the merchant shop and navigating the streets of Ul'Dah around the mercenaries and warriors who were convalescing after skirmishing with the Empire. Isarette winces away from Kreszenta's pugilist training and takes up a staff instead. Fireballs and blitzstrikes are hard but ice is easy to her.

"Those coliseums lunkheads fight only with their top half." Amalasuintha scolds when Kreszenta is out-muscled by a large Highlander boy. "People think only the head matters."

She takes the next one down in a few moves.

"Good. Use your whole body. ... And yes, I will teach you the Singing Mountain style."

.

.

.

Next came Keltmyrgan, a young Sea Wolf Roegadyn working on his clan's ship. They'd never seen a Roegadyn child before and they tossed around unlikely theories as to why that might be. They looked rather awkward and gangly. It took them a week of chasing him around for him to realize they had matching soulmarks. Fortunately by then he'd become more fondly amused by their antics than combustingly annoyed.

After that the proposed mercantile alliance went without a hitch; Highlanders were quite familiar with Hellsguard Roegadyn, less so Sea Wolves. It had been hindering the discussions.

Their parents invited them to dinner, providing them with a rare glimpse into Roegadyn culture beyond their surface reputation. The inner rooms were decorated with woven nets dotted with shells with the skulls of sea creatures on the walls or rows of teeth.

"Fish do not glow!"

"They do so!" Keltmyrgan declared. "I've seen 'em."

Kreszenta leveled a skeptical look.

"Listen here, landlubber - "

The parents peered into the room to Isarette jabbing them both with a stick and scolding them in Elphamic more and more loudly with each failure.

"Are you sure something didn't go horrible wrong?" Keltmyrgan's mother wondered.

"Oh, no - they're perfect for one another."

"I AM SEPARATING YOU BOTH!"

.

The wall being built on the Gyr Abanian border almost provokes a riot from the exiled Gyr Abanians - until the Agrius appeared in the skies.

They were fifteen - well, Kreszenta was fifteen, Isarette was older, year wise - when the Agrius moved. The flurry of panick that gripped the city as the inevitable approached, looming over the heartland of Eorzea, Mor Dhona. The mages and sages and priests and priestesses decried the Empire, despoilers of a sacred land, no one's land.

The Agrius and the accompanying fleet could be seen for malms around - and so could the flock of dragons that descended on them like heavenly judgment.

The pillar of brilliant light awashed the realm with blue-green light - and a flash of images seared into her mind's eye.

Isarette and Kreszenta were both unconscious for days and the Highlander's second soulmark, burst into full, vibrant violet color as if stubbornly determined to meet whoever it belonged to.

And Isarette got a new one not long after, a soulmark necklace.

"It seems to change colors…"

"Can everyone please stop staring at my neck, now?"

Kreszenta promptly grabbed her father by the ear, dragging him back.

.

"What do you think its means?"

"You'll be bonded and ride off into the sunset?"

Isarette looked blank and confused; Kreszenta shrugged. "I have no idea. They had diviners look over this stuff in Thavnair but I haven't the foggiest about interpreting soulmarks Does it matter where they are or what color they are?"

She waved it off and Isarette seemed to accept it but Kreszenta went to sleep with her hand brushing her ankle mark. It hummed and she had dreams.

Of a castle-like city - solid, an impenetrable, a fortress - amongst the clouds. An Elezen - with warm light brown skin - like almost ripe wheat and short black hair, pulling back an arrow to its greatest length, eyes narrowed in concentration.

That... hadn't before.

"Mutti," Kresza asked. "Do people get dreams with their soulmarks?"

Amalasuintha looked at her daughter in slight confusion. "Dreams of the soulmatched? I've heard of it. It's usually an Elezen thing...I guess it's Isarette's fault."

"What's my fault?!"

Kresza giggled.

.

.

Disgruntled, now-unemployed mercenaries roamed Thanalan, crime breaking out. And then the Adventurer's Guild was born.

"Help your sister," her mother said firmly. "Nothing but a ragtag band. It's best not to get into things when it's new. Wait and see."

.

.

.

Vanava didn't come until a later, when Isarette was visiting Gridania with their caravans and returned with a lance in addition to her thaumaturge's staff.

"This is Vanava."

The blonde lalafell flailed. "I am not a doll, put me down this instant!"

"Hi!" Kreszenta hung from the rafters, waving and felt her wrist hum, curiously seeing a jagged rhombus burst into full color next to Keltmyrgan's water drop.

"Isarette," she said, pointing. "Where did you find her?"

"Put me down!"

Isarette obeyed, looking sheepish. "I didn't want you to get lost. Gridania. She knocked out a bunch of people for me,"

Kreszenta burst out laughing and promptly felt off the rafters.

Fortunately, Vanava was a conjurer.

"You too are going to be trouble," Vanava smiles at her as she waves a cure.

"No - just Zenzi,"

"Don't listen to her. Oh and call me Kresza. No one ever does."

Vanava laughs, her sidetails bouncing. 'Alright."

.

Hydaen came after that, when she was twenty-three. Disappointed that Isarette spent more time in Gridania these days, she was fighting at one of Ul'Dah's lesser known attractions - the Sandtrap - against a new competitor.

"Our reigning champion! Tonight, she'll be facing the unfamiliar - a warrior from the Southern Seas!"

"I'm from _here_ ," she heard her opponent mutter. He was a fairly attractive Hyur - wouldn't be a out of place on a Gridanian Ranch. His chestnut hair was tousled, his blue eyes seemingly innocent. He leveled his saber and she decided her long katars would be wiser.

The bell rung and she pushed forward in a burst of speed, her katar blade ringing against his saber; he ducked rolled and pulled a second saber from the same sheathe, grinning and springing back up; saber and katars clashed - and their wrists hummed.

Later, Kreszenta would describe their apparently identical looks of shock and wry acceptance. "And then he tried to cut off my hand!"

"You were trying to stab off my face so I think we're even."

.

When she went to find him at the Quicksand as instructed, she helped a Miqo'te win a bar fight. She had long, brown hair she didn't seem to know what to do with and turned to her with a smile.

"So, you're the one trying to take Hydaen away from me. I just found him!"

Kreszenta's wrist hummed and the Miqo'te twitched in surprise. "Don't worry; I'm sure we'll be sharing."

"Warden have mercy," Hydaen muttered, having appeared and the Miqo'te cast Kreszenta a mischievous grin.

"I'm O'hyasru, dearheart." she purred. "And you?"

.

 _"You what?! "_

"Two soulmatches in one day. I call that a new record! And - and they're soulmatched to _each other_ too!"

Isarette grumbles over the linkpearl. _"I swear if we share them again..."_

 _"I bet you 200 gil that we do,"_

 _"I am not betting with you."_

 _._  
 _._  
 _._

"The Echo?" Kreszenta considered what O'hyasru and Hydaen have told her. They're apart of a group - the Path of Twelve. She's heard of it though she assumed it was a group of scholars of devouts dedicated to honoring all the Twelve. They're also describing a phenomena. "A Starshower?"

"Did you see one?"

"... Maybe. Isarette and I passed out when the Silvertear exploded." It would explain some of her visions and 'knowing'...

O'hyasru gasped but Hydaen looks clueless. "Where were _you,_ under a rock?!"

"Sailing, probably."

"Minfilia - she's the Antecedent," the Archer explained. "She thinks the Echo affects soulmarks,"

Kreszenta thinks about the violet feathers on her ankle and feels them hum. "Come with us? We can introduce you!"

She also remembers the Fists of Rhalgr and how her mother lights incense and prays through ever Destroyer's Moon. "No thanks. My loyalty is to you alone, not a group,"

.

There was a corner of Mor Dhona that _hadn't_ been crystal blasted but as if to mock them it was also infested with morlboros and aetherial gates.

Apparently, no one told Hydaen this.

"Hydaen!"

"It's alright," Kreszenta said, dragging O'hyasru onto their single chocobo even though the aetherial gate had snapped closed. "We'll trace it."

O'hyasru almost had heart-attack seeing him caught in the tentacle of a flaming marlboro. Kreszenta threw a chakram, O'hyasru loosed an arrow, exploding the tentacle as an aero spell exploded.

The marlboro vine tumbling to the lake, still on fire and a lalafell conjurer sent it back with a barrage of stone spells.

It collapsed - at last - with a shriek, punctured with wounds and burning besides.

Hydaen forced his way to the surface of the shallow pool gasping and a massive hand grabbed him by the back of the shirt, lifting him out of the water.

He nodded to the Roegadyn in thanks only to be rammed into by O'hyasru at high speed. "Ooh! Asru stop - 'm fine!"

"... You're not on fire."

Hydaen gestured at the water.

"Oh. Of course."

Kreszenta shouted: "I tried to stop her!"

"Krez?" Keltmyrgan waved at her in confusion.

"There you are!" Isarette pointed the lance at her accusingly. "Where have you been?!"

"Sorry, I was distracted. Besides, you were suppose to meet us between Gridania and Ul'Dah! This is _Mor Dhona_."

"We were gathering supplies."

"Yes, I can see that,"

"Don't sass me,"

Keltmyrgan sighed at them both. "I regret meeting both of you,"

"No, you don't."

"Nice shooting by the way," Vanava said to Hydaen, giggling as O'hyasru poked and prodded him for injuries.

"Who are these people?" Keltmyrgan asked, pointing at the Midlander Hyur and Sunseeker Miqo'te and they both glared - as a searing flare on their wrists burned and a chime resounded in their minds..

Each their wrists hummed, their surroundings wiped away to reveal a deep blue aetherial farplane.

 _"Um… "_

Feather drifted down slowly like confetti, a harp chiming in the void as six crystals appeared.

 _The elements have been aligned!_

The song faded, their sight returning to them blinkingly. The marlboro was whimpering faintly in the background, Kreszenta's chocobo staring at them in concern.

Keltmyrgan summed it up most eloquently: "What?"

.

Compared to those, the unique one seemed more of a mockery. It simply lay there and after awhile she began to wonder if it was a cruel prank of her parents. But Isarette had another soulmark too as did Hydaen.

And when they returned to Eorzea via Louisoix's spell instead of the vibrant plum violet she remembered, the feathers around her ankle had become a beautiful empyreal blue and a neat hand traced words into them. She had to use a mirror to read it.

 _"I can ill-afford to be laid abed because of a practice bout."_

.

"Are you going to try to kill him on first meeting?" Hydaen had asked upon seeing it.

"No!"

Hydaen' eyebrow swooped up in that all-speaking way of his, no doubt remembering _their_ first meeting.

"Does Isa's have writing on it?"

Isarette shoved her hand against O'hyasru face. "Isa wants her personal space. And no, it doesn't."

.

Her dreams were disjointed and chaotic - at least when looking back. In the moment….she could remember a vast stone castle and an Elezen going through crates of wares. Kind blue eyes, a soft smile, a wistful expression.

Minfilia had suggested that the Echo caused unusual new properties in Soulmarks.

Her linkpearl chimed bringing her out of her reverie. "What?"

"Alphinaud has a request."

"Tell him to ask Hydaen - as usual."

"Hydaen's helping Curious Gorge beat sense into his new Ravagers. Come on, Krez, he's not that bad."

Kreszenta grumbled. "Fine, where is he?"

* * *

 **3305 Words**

I was attempting to explain/headcanon about soulmarks in this 'verse but since I'm also like: 'Echo affects the soulmarks in unusual ways' it doesn't help. Basically - the Echoseers/Warriors of Light are slightly weirder than everyone else.

Fun Fact: Savitri and Sauvanne were their Proto-names. Proto because I realized that all the feminine names in the main team were too similar.


End file.
